Divergent Paths
by Bloodhawk 248
Summary: AU fic collection; all the what-ifs, could-have beens, and never-weres. Chapter 3: Ashe and Kayle make a fire.
1. Judgment

Hi all! This is a new side project that got away from me. Like the summary said, it'll be a bunch of AU ficlets, probably not more than fifteen hundred words at the most each, maybe two thousand. I have no idea what I'll write next, but I have vague ideas about something featuring Riven and Katarina, and maybe something involving Sivir, Nasus, and Ezreal.

This first fic was actually an application for a writing blog; even though it wasn't accepted I'm happy enough with it to post. I'd talk a bit about it, but that'll give away what surprise it has, so read on!

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><p>You don't know how it's gotten to this.<p>

"The accused will step forward."

The guard at your side yanks the chains encircling your wrists, and you're forced to do as he wants. The architects of your humiliation, those self-appointed leaders, stare down upon you from a hastily-erected podium. Their wings puff out behind them, accentuating their presence, while yours are bound behind your back with more chains. They stand and look down on you, their gazes burning with smug triumph.

All except one. She stands tall, taller than any of her peers, and yet she won't meet your eyes.

Good. At least she realizes what she's done.

"The accused will kneel!" Your chief tormentor shouts. Eremen, you remember dimly, except that he doesn't call himself that anymore. He's taken on a new title, one that rings with irony and mocks him every moment he wears it. You wonder if he notices that, and that small bit of humor brings a grim smirk to your lips.

You don't kneel.

His sapphire eyes fill with fury and he nods to someone behind you. A booted foot kicks out your knee and you hit the ground with a thud that's as painful as it sounds. There's not even a possibility of fighting back; your legs are shackled together just like your arms, and so as the guards' fists hit you you feel every blow. One smashes into your head hard enough that stars fill your vision.

"Enough! Please, brothers!"

Of course. It would be her. She's on her feet now, indignation blazing in her gaze. Even through the ringing of your head that sounds like hammers at the forge, you hear the thumps of booted feet as your assailants withdraw.

"Just end this, Metatron. She is no threat any longer; there is no reason to torment her." Her beautiful voice addresses Eremen, a melody that used to be so pleasant for you to hear, echoes through the chamber. No doubt everyone is spellbound; they love her so much. Just like you once did.

"You heard her," you spit out through bloodied teeth, "get on with it."

Eremen smiles smugly and spreads his arms. His wings lift with them, ascending in twin columns of white.

"The criminal stands accused of numerous crimes: swaying the people's ears with propaganda, ruthlessly suppressing any with the courage to speak out, and the murder of countless brave revolutionaries in her quest to crush all who oppose her. She has laid waste to our world in the name of order, strangling freedom until one close to her," here he nods to the traitor at his side, who bows her head in acknowledgement, "had the will to assist her downfall. In light of these grave charges, we the Tribunal, in our infinite wisdom, have chosen to pass judgment upon her, so that we may swiftly resolve matters and return our focus to the rebuilding of our war-ravaged world."

He's as long-winded as ever, but he's getting to the point. You wait, blood dripping down your face, and you're not disappointed.

"Kayle, scion of Dumah and Raphaela, self-styled Judicator and mass murderer. For your crimes against Eden, we sentence you to exile. Know that your bloodstained hands merit death, but that your sister pleaded for lenience. The Tribunal is merciful."

A mage nearby murmurs a few words, and a tear appears in the center of the chamber. You recognize it: a portal to another world. The guards manhandle you towards it.

Soft steps halt in front of you and you look up, vision blurring. She kneels down, taking your head in her hands.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way." Her words are spoken from the heart.

"I should have dashed your brains out on the hospice floor." So are yours.

She flinches with pain. "Your rule was tearing the world apart! I had a duty to save it! You taught me that!"

"I trusted you! All this time you sat at my table, ate my bread, and plotted with these bastards!" Your voice rises, and you're aware of the guards tensing, hands on swords.

A tear drips from the corner of her eye, but this time she doesn't flinch. Instead she drops a kiss on your forehead and stands away, nodding to the guards.

"I love you, sister." And with that she turns her back.

The guards heft your body and raise you, but all you can see are Morgana's wings as she strides away. A feather drops from one, and you follow it with your eyes as you're dragged away; it falls and falls and falls…

And then you are falling too.


	2. Introductions

Sorry about the late update - summer means no school, and no school means all of my League friends demand my time. I'll get back to work on Exile's Path, in case anyone is actually reading this and cares. This is meant to be a sequel to the first chapter, so hopefully you've read that one first.

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><p>"This is the last we will speak of it, Ashe. No."<p>

Ashe's spirits fell. Speaking with her mother usually had that effect.

"But -"

"I said, enough." At moments like this, Ashe fancied her mother's voice to be colder than the howling winds that scoured the Freljord. Icy blue eyes, so much like her own, stared her down.

As always, Ashe looked for a crack in the facade, any hint of sympathy or understanding. As always, she found nothing and bowed her head.

"Yes, mother."

The older woman held her gaze for a long moment before stern features relaxed and the look she gave her daughter was more weary than judgmental.

"One day you'll understand."

With that, the leader of Ashe's tribe pushed aside their tent flap and left, leaving her daughter still sitting on a pile of furs.

If she lived to be older than Avarosa, she didn't think she'd ever understand why tribal jealousies and endless warfare were so much better than a united state free from conflict and instability. Demacia, Piltover, even Noxus - their citizens marched together under a single banner with a common purpose instead of killing each other over stolen cattle and decade-old rivalries.

What could the Freljord accomplish with even a fraction of that kind of solidarity?

Thinking about it made Ashe's blood boil; why couldn't anyone see? Stubborn idiots, the lot of them, so focused on their tiny little worlds when outside their borders loomed a much larger reality. If they weren't mindful of the dangers...she wanted to do something, anything to shake some sense into her fellow tribesmen, but as long as her mother refused to lend her support she wouldn't be taken seriously. The rest of the tribe still saw her as a stupid, silly little dreamer.

She stood up abruptly and snatched her bow from where it lay against the side of the tent. The quiver beside it went over her shoulder, the arrows inside it rattling gently.

She'd show them she wasn't just talk.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, with the wind whipping her cloak savagely against her body and her fingers half numb, Ashe had to admit that this might not have been the best idea she'd ever come up with.<p>

With her hood pulled tight to her head, almost over her eyes, she could barely see anything. The constant downpour of snow wasn't helping with that either. There was so much of the stuff that some of it had somehow gotten through her furs to sit against her bare skin, and her own body heat meant that she could now feel water trickling down her chest.

How was she going to hunt down a bear or a boar in this kind of weather? They were probably all asleep in their caves, huddled up nice and warm. Like she should have been, back in the camp. She had no plan of action, only a vague desire without any way to make it happen. So idiotic! If she didn't find shelter quick, she wouldn't have a chance to change her mother's mind.

Her purpose clear, Ashe stumbled on, lurching ungainly in the cold as the blizzard intensified.

Some time later - minutes? hours? - her foot made contact with an outcropping of rock and slipped. Gravity did its work and seconds later Ashe found herself facedown on the floor, nose throbbing.

The young archer cursed, biting back a snarl. Clumsy as well as stupid; no wonder everyone thought she was a stupid little girl-

Wait. She couldn't feel the snow.

Ashe looked up; she'd stumbled into a cave. A fairly deep one at that; big enough that the back ought to be insulated against the elements. It was a perfect place to hide out until the storm abated. She took a step forward. Gods, she was so tired. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep until the snows let up and she could crawl back to her mother with her tail between her legs.

Something stirred at the cave's back.

Instinct made Ashe fumble for her bow, but frost-numbed fingers failed and her weapon clattered against the stone floor.

"Shit!" Abandoning it, she instead snatched an arrow from her quiver, knowing as she did so what a paltry defense it made. Too late to worry about that; she braced herself for the thing's charge.

Instead, in the cave's dead silence Ashe heard the unmistakable sound of wings unfurling. Two great shadows rose up over the thing's silhouette and it...twitched? A very human groan, muted and weak, reached Ashe's ears.

Curiosity perked, the archer retrieved her bow and nocked the arrow in her hand. For a split second she considered just leaving the cave and taking her chances with the elements, but dismissed that thought immediately. Cautiously, she crept forward.

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><p>How long has time passed, since the portal threw you out into this frigid hell and you crawled into this cave like an animal lying down to die? How long has it been since the trial, where Metatron denounced all your work with his lying tongue and the person you loved most, who you thought loved you just as much, stood by and condoned his falsehoods? How long since you were Kayle the Judicator and not Kayle the exile, Kayle the traitor, Kayle the fallen?<p>

The first thing that breaks your dull reverie is a footstep, a thump of boots against stone. It stirs you from thoughts of Eden and Morgana, the confused regrets and hatreds that remind you you're not who you were.

The second thing is a dull clatter; you force open frost-numbed eyes just enough to see a slender figure outlined against the mouth of the cave, brandishing a bow in its hands. Immediately your threat instinct kicks in and you struggle to stand, but all you can manage is to unfurl your wings in the common fight-or-flight stance of the Angelus, stretching them up and out to their utmost length.

Were you standing, you would look intimidating. Right now you're probably just pathetic. You're malnourished, tired, and this accursed frozen wasteland is sapping your magic. At this point, a simple candle flame is beyond your abilities.

The interloper comes closer; interrupting your musings. Its form abruptly resolves into stark focus out of the gloom and you see it clearly. It resembles an Angelus, except that it has no wings. The very idea is preposterous; how would it go anywhere? How would it keep its balance?

It's a human. A vague memory comes to mind; the Exploratory Host mentioned visiting a world inhabited by them. Quarrelsome, stubborn and stupid creatures with lifespans as short as their tempers, constantly fighting each other for imagined slights. And now you're at its mercy.

The human crouches down beside you, the fur covering over its head slipping off. Quite obviously female, it has very blue eyes, bluer than any of your kinsmen. Long white hair tumbles down its shoulders. Dimly you note it would be pretty, if not for the horrendous lack of wings.

It speaks to you, meaningless gibberish that grates on your ears. A greeting or a threat, you can't tell. One hand reaches out, and with all the strength you have left you slap it away.

"Don't touch me," you gasp, leveling it with the sternest glare you can. "I will not be manhandled by a dirt-dweller."

It withdraws but not far, eyes carefully considering you. You stare back angrily - who is it to judge you, the highest authority on Eden? You, who commanded the respect of all Eden? For one moment you swell with pride, remembering past victories and accolades heaped upon you - and then you remember her face. Her back, turning away from you.

The pain hasn't dulled at all, and you slump, all fight gone out of you. The human sits on its haunches a safe distance away, pity shining in those blue eyes.

"Do not pity me," you tell it, knowing full well it cannot understand you, "I want none of it." It recoils from you, though you don't think your tone is harsh. You scowl anyway; if it won't kill you then it should leave you to stew in your misery.

And then your stomach lets loose a growl rivaling that of the Hierarchy's war-dogs.

The human's reaction is totally unexpected; it laughs, a light, musical chuckle. You stiffen with rage, but before you can summon the last of your strength to do something you'll regret, it reaches into a pouch at its side and withdraws a dried piece of meat. It extends its hand, the meat in it like an offering.

It's tough and salty, nothing like the tender and succulent lizard steaks in Eden, but it's food and you haven't eaten for days. You wolf it down like it's the best meal you've ever tasted, and when you're done the human is offering you a skin of some sort, filled with water. You drink, and the cool, clean taste clears your mind as well as your throat; the excess dribbles down your lips and you sputter, hastily wiping your mouth. The human merely watches, mirth sparkling in its eyes.

You cough, handing it back the skin, and meet its gaze.

"Thank you for the provender." The old forms of etiquette resurface, and though you know the human comprehends nothing you say you are still obliged to go through the motions. Father and Mother did not raise an ungrateful boor. "I am Kayle, first daughter of Dumah and Raphaela, former Judicator of Eden, and I am in your debt." You pause, considering the final part of the formula. "Might I have your name?" The human stares blankly; you curse to yourself. Of course it didn't know what you were asking, it's just a dirty ape -

The human's face clears abruptly, and it points to itself. "Ashe." It points to you, delicate features now questioning. And now, somehow, despite the language barrier, you know exactly what it means.

Feeling like an utter idiot, you point to yourself and mutter, "Kayle,"

It smiles, face shining with a simple, uncomplicated joy, and right then _it _becomes _she._

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ashe," you say, and to your surprise you find that it is true.


	3. Kindling

"Come on!"

For the fifth time Ashe slashed her knife against her flint. It was no good, the dead branches and kindling she'd managed to scrounge from outside were too damp to catch fire. The young archer sat back on her knees and groaned, staring dismally at her tools.

She shivered. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon as snow continued to fall. Even if the weather cleared up, there was no way she'd be able to get home safely after dark. And that was without the added complication of a guest.

She cast a glance over her shoulder. The woman - Kayle? - was curled up in the back of the cave where Ashe had found her; wings wrapped protectively around her body where she had fallen asleep after the meal. Dirty blonde hair dangled past her shoulders, hopelessly tangled and matted. The strange cloth garment she wore had seen better days; it was tattered and showed much more than it didn't, exposing a long stretch of skin almost as pale as Ashe's own but far less unblemished. Scars criss-crossed the strange woman's stomach, sword or knife wounds winding their way across toned abdominal muscles. Thin and starved though the woman looked, there were men in Ashe's village who didn't have that kind of definition. At the thought, Ashe blushed slightly.

The subject of her observations let out a low groan and folded her wings more tightly around herself. At closer glance she appeared to be shivering; Ashe cursed quietly to herself; if she couldn't start a fire soon they would both freeze to death. The stranger wasn't dressed for the cold and she only had her own fur cloak to keep her warm.

Not for the first time Ashe considered that she was very much in trouble.

Abruptly a cold breeze ruffled her hair; the unexpected chill made her draw her cloak around her. Behind her the stranger moaned quietly, a slight clicking informing Ashe that her teeth were chattering, and the young woman grimaced in sympathy.

Leaving the flint and knife where they lay, Ashe made her way to the back of the cave and knelt beside Kayle. One hand undid the heavy fur cloak from her shoulders while the other gently wrapped it around her shivering companion. Kayle twitched, and Ashe briefly expected some sort of response, but instead the winged woman sighed and snuggled into the cloak's warmth.

Without her cloak, the winter chill cut more deeply into Ashe's bones as she walked back to the mouth of the cave and picked up her tools again.

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><p><em>You are back on the fields of Eden, clad in your armor with your sword in hand. The rebel hosts darken the sky; they are so numerous you don't even bother to count. They surround you mid-air as your tired wings beat to keep you aloft, taunting and jeering you. <em>

_She is among them, clad in an Arbitrator's robes, looking as cold and remotely beautiful as a Mausoleum statue. She looks down on you dispassionately, raises one arm, and the mobs fall on you, screaming hatred as swords rain down -_

There is something touching you but it isn't a sword, and as you shake yourself out of the dream you realize it is a heavy garment made out of animal fur, draped over your wings. For a moment you don't recognize it but then clarity sinks in; it's the human's cloak, the one who found you in the cave and gave you the first meal you've had in days.

Even through the weight of the cloak you can feel the oppressive cold bite at you; it's almost unbearable. Your magic struggles to come to life, to warm you, but the very air weighs it down, stifles the fire of your inner being with gusts of freezing air. There is no doubt that you will die here, your inner heat snuffed out by this unrelenting frost.

Where is the human? You cannot imagine that she can survive this hell without her garment and you look around in something approaching panic. You owe her your life, and a true Angelus would die rather than leave a debt unpaid.

A shock of white catches your eye, the form it's attached to slumped near the entrance to this cave. The effort it takes to stand - slowly, haltingly - and then reach the human is monumental. Your body aches with every step, reminding you of every blow taken and every meal missed. Yet you are Kayle of Eden and pain means very little to you.

The human - Ashe - is still alive when you reach her, but her eyes are closed and her breath is erratic, escaping her lips in quick bursts. Tiny crystals of frost have formed on her eyelids, and she feels disturbingly heavy when you seize her by the shoulders and throw her cloak around both of you.

"Stupid human!" you growl, "have you no sense of self-preservation?"

At your harsh words blue eyes flutter open. You see first surprise, and then desperation. She chokes out a few words you don't understand, one hand scrabbling at the floor. You look down; a rock and a knife lie at your feet, along with a small pile of twigs and branches.

What manner of human practice this is, you have no idea, but evidently Ashe believes it to be important. You take the tools and press them into her hands, and are shocked when she strikes the edge of the knife against the rock.

"Are you mad?" you cry out, but she ignores you and tries again. Orange flecks of light fly off the clashing surfaces and into the pile of dead wood. Nothing happens, but the human keeps at her futile exercise.

Your arms close around her, ready to haul her away from this nonsense, when a final spark falls into the refuse, glowing sullenly.

And you feel it as your magic stirs to life, breathing new warmth into your limbs. Somehow this spark is the trigger, the impetus for action you've somehow been missing. It isn't much, just the faintest whisper of a memory, but it is enough for you to touch your fingers to the sorry-looking pile of dead wood and coax to life a small globe of flame that merrily consumes the kindling.

For the first time since you have come to this barren world you feel joy, and as you turn to meet your companion's gaze you see in her awestruck eyes, as blue as the waters of the Holy Cascades, a mirror of that joy. It is that understanding that compels you to pull her flush against your side and arrange the cloak more securely around the both of you as she looks raptly into the growing fire.

It is a while before sleep takes you, but when it does you do not dream.


End file.
